


Sixteen

by keepitcrispy



Category: Tales of Arcadia (Cartoons)
Genre: Angst, Apparently parricide is a gender- and relative-nonspecific term for killing a family member, Before bittersweet sixteen, Birthday, Changeling Culture, Childhood Memories, Coffee date ruined by too much thinking of non-date thoughts, Gen, Guess bad birthday memories are a thing Walt and Jim have in common, How changelings deal with those pesky emotional attachments, I tagged jim in this but he’s not really IN IT in it he’s just a subject of discussion and concern, Like matricide or patricide or fratricide but more broad, Looking back on bad times, Maybe not THAT ruined though bc I think somebody’s realizing that he has feelings, Mention of family death, Though I didn’t actually use “die/kill” words in either case, Trollhunters Season 1 (Tales of Arcadia), Walt has Jim beat by centuries tho on the whole ignore my own birthday bc of past trauma thing, in the form of definitely happened via parricide and potentially happening via that’s how life goes, it’s implied, parental anxiety
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-17
Updated: 2021-01-17
Packaged: 2021-03-15 04:28:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,194
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28807347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keepitcrispy/pseuds/keepitcrispy
Summary: The subject of Jim’s upcoming birthday pops up while Barbara and Walt are out for coffee and neither of them handles it very well.
Relationships: Barbara Lake/Walter Strickler | Stricklander
Comments: 6
Kudos: 23





	Sixteen

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve been bingeing stricklake for like 2 weeks and had to write a thing of my own
> 
> btw suggestions of a better title are very welcome, i suck at titles

When the changeling now known as Stricklander turned sixteen, the day had passed without notice. Nobody knew or cared for the occasion; the mutated young troll, whose name and identity were long gone, had no idea of the time that had passed since he had first entered into the world. Furthermore, he had never heard of such an anniversary as the celebration of one’s birth, nor did he have any cause to celebrate his continued existence anyway. Surrounded as he was by other changelings, all enduring the same grueling existence of servitude under their cruel troll supervisors, battling to the death in Gunmar’s Crucible, and training for all manner of survival under those of their own kind, that day remains forever indistinguishable from countless others in the Darklands. 

When the changeling’s stolen identity of Waltolomew Strickler turned sixteen, he received from his human mother a special dinner of roast pheasant, from his human father a new hunting knife in a beautifully tooled sheath. Those would be the last gifts, birthday or otherwise, that he would ever receive from the humans who had raised him as their own. Of age to be seen a man in his own right by his human community, he received from his superiors orders to be carried out using his new hunting knife, a deadline with the suggestion that he stay far ahead of it, and a witness assigned to dispose of him and any human bystanders should Stricklander fail.

After joining his familiar’s family, Stricklander had swiftly come to appreciate the celebration of one’s time upon the earth, among other human customs. He had been warned of the dangers of becoming attached to the fleshbags, just before being sent through the fetch. The warning was never explicitly repeated but was heavily implied over the years by his superiors on the surface. Even so, it was difficult to maintain the distance required between himself and his human family. He never realized, until that day, that the warning was not meant to protect trollkind, or Gunmar’s agenda, or changelings as a people, but to protect each one, individually, from the hardest thing that is ever asked of a changeling. Corruption of a surface agent due to emotional attachment would not be tolerated. 

* * *

Walter didn’t realize how far his attention had wandered until the sweet concern in Barbara’s voice filtered through the haze. 

“Walt? Walt, are you okay?” The tone of her voice was reflected in her face as she peered at him across the café table; Barbara’s auburn brows scrunched together over her wide, crystal blue eyes and her lips remained ever so slightly parted as she waited for his answer. The dappled sunlight played shadows over her as a breeze fluttered through the leaves of the tree sheltering their table.

“My apologies, Barbara.” He blinked a couple of times, hard, and shook his head a little as if he could dislodge the memory of what he’d done to the first and last humans he’d allowed himself to care for. “I’m just... I was a little lost in thought.”

 _Never again_.

Barbara’s features shifted, the tension eased from her brow, but she didn’t speak. Walter tried to relax his own expression, leaning back in his chair and thinking very pointedly about Rule Number Three, _Rule Number Three, **Rule Number Three**_.

“Has Jim completed his driver’s education?” Walt asked, hoping to return to the subject of the boy’s impending milestone and revive the light mood that he’d all but killed with his reminiscing. “He tends to doodle in the margins of his tests. I’ve noticed that Vespa scooters seem to be a favorite subject of his. A set of wheels would make for an impressive birthday present for a young man.”

Shoulders slumping, Barbara let out a sigh. It was far from a return to her previous levity, but this at least seemed directed more inward rather than relating to Walter’s hastily masked discomfort.

“He has his learner’s permit. He’s got Vespa posters and magazines all over his room. He’s been not-so-subtly hinting at wanting one for a while now,” she relented. “I just, I don’t know if I want him on one of those.”

If her shoulders had slumped before, they were positively drooping now. 

“If I may,” Walter began, leaning forward over the table again. “Jim strikes me as a very responsible, hard-working young man. I’m confident he would take the utmost care for his safety on the road.”

“He is that,” Barbara agreed quietly. She took a deep breath before continuing. “Do you know how many patients we get in the ER from vehicular accidents? How many of those are people on scooters and motorcycles? How many of _those_ aren’t even because the person was too stupid or careless or brave, but just because some drivers on four wheels bully drivers that are on two?”

Barbara had leaned over the table towards Walter and grasped his hands in her own. Too caught up in the passion of her words, he didn’t even realize until she squeezed his hands tightly to punctuate her concerns. 

“I just can’t stand the thought of him getting hurt, Walt. I don’t know what I’d do if...” she trailed off, her glistening eyes pinning him to the spot. Her gaze penetrated through every mask the changeling wore, right down to his core. Walter felt as if she were begging not only the world, but begging _him personally_ , not to harm her son. 

“Barbara,” he began, just managing to avoid the crack in his voice. 

Certainly, she couldn’t know, could she? No. No, he was only imagining it. She knew nothing beyond the normal concerns of a mother. His conscience was just playing tricks on him. He knew what must happen, what he must do.

 _Rule Number Three_.

Since when had a conscience ever bothered him? No matter what Stricklander had thought of Young Atlas before Merlin’s bloody amulet chose a child for a champion. He had to retrieve the amulet.

“Barbara,” he tried again.

A single tear spilled from her left eye. It’s effect was instantaneous, breaking Barbara from the spell she’d placed herself under. She blinked and turned away, more tears falling free from where they’d gathered at her lids. 

“I’m sorry,” she panted, voice high and breathless, as she fanned at her face with both hands. He passed her the unused napkin from beside his half-eaten croissant.

Walter could feel a tightness building in his own throat. He swallowed hard to banish it. 

_Rule Number Three_.

Barbara roughly wiped the tears from her cheeks. Trying to take a big breath, she could only manage shuddering gasps. She shoved her hand up under her glasses to try to dry her eyes. 

“Barbara,” Walt said, for the third time in a row. He still didn’t know how to follow it.

He reached across the table to pluck the glasses from where they sat skewed across her forehead, folding them and placing them next to her forgotten coffee. 

Gently cupping her face in his hands, and with more confidence than he’d had saying anything else that afternoon, he told her “Nothing will happen to your son.”

**Author's Note:**

> My first work posted to AO3 and my first work at all for this fandom! Something got me thinking about Walt’s experience with birthdays the other day and I’ve been tapping away at this on and off since then.
> 
> Feedback is super duper appreciated :)


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